


Full House, Jokers Wild

by twistedchick



Series: Gamblers' Choice [8]
Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:22:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Has Michael's obsession with Nikita driven him over the edge?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full House, Jokers Wild

"I don't buy it." Walter stared at Birkoff over a hot cup of coffee. "Keep your voice down, kid. Remember where you are."

"But they said --"

"Maybe, maybe not. I would've bet diamonds that she'd stay as far from him as possible, but I've been wrong before."

Birkoff's face looked tense and vulnerable, behind the defense of his glasses. "I'm going to ask her."

"I wouldn't."

"Why not?" Defiant. "No lies."

"No promises," Walter pointed out. Birkoff sat silent, long fingers tapping the sides of his coffee mug.

Walter could live with Nikita looking around a little; although their three lives were interwoven deeply, he did his own share of looking. He knew Birkoff spent more time with some of the computer ops than was strictly accounted for during working hours, and it wasn't all vertical either.

Why shouldn't Nikita have the same rights?

No reason at all.

But Nikita was different -- everyone knew it. She did what she said she'd do, but she went out of her way not to hurt others. Birkoff had grown up a lot since he met Nikita, and he was brilliant at his own work, but Walter could still see him measuring himself against some other ops' looks and abilities and coming up short. If what Birkoff had heard was true, it might be the worst thing she could have done to him. He was glad the kid had come to him, to try to give him a chance to salvage the situation before it got out of hand, but it wasn't going to be simple.

The cafeteria door swung open. Michael walked casually to the coffee bar, poured himself a tall mug, doctored it, and turned to leave. Seeing Walter and Birkoff, he nodded in acknowledgement. Both of them looked at him and looked away without comment; Walter gave him a curt nod. Michael shrugged slightly; he couldn't care less if the munitions expert and the computer chief were both feeling moody. The door swung shut behind him.

"I just don't get it," Birkoff whispered, watching that swinging door. "Why Michael?"

That was the whole thing in a nutshell, Walter thought grimly. If Nikita had slept with any other ops in Section, neither of them would have said a word.

It wasn't as if they lived in the real world where monogamy was a reasonable way of life. He'd half expected her to be involved with Mowen, back before Mowen had died of the plague; she and Mowen had reached a level of mutual understanding and respect that could have gone a long way. But that had never happened.

Still -- Michael? It went against everything he understood of Nikita. He didn't deny her attraction to him, but he'd seen the same thing happen hundreds of times in his years in Section -- ops often fell in love with their trainers, or their trainers with them. It resembled the Stockholm Effect, kidnap victims sympathizing with their captors; it resulted from the inequal power structure inherent in the trainer-material situation. Acting on these emotional bonds was heavily discouraged because it was inevitable that they would move apart in their work, and too-deep, broken relationships at that stage often made them vulnerable later on.

Walter put a hand on Birkoff's arm; the younger man shook it off. "If she did, she had to have a pretty good reason for it."

"She's not playing house with him right now for Ops and Madeleine. He's not even assigned to work with her. I want to know that reason." Birkoff's jaw set hard. "I need to know." He pushed his chair away from the table and walked out.

As Walter dumped their cups and set them in the dishwasher in the corner, he shook his head. This whole situation looked like trouble. Maybe he should work overtime on something, just to be within reach and out of the way simultaneously until it blew over.

***

Nikita pushed her errant bangs out of her eyes for the fourth time and turned back to the simulation Madeleine had set her to analyze. She was looking for holes in other agents' analyses, the kind of thing that could kill ops if it went unnoticed. Since she'd finished her hypnotism training and become more involved in interrogations, Madeleine had her oversee more other agents' work, to give her experience with different sides of Section's missions than she would see as a cold op.

She felt unexpectedly good, considering the past few days. Madeleine had sent her to question Anton LeVecque, who had framed her for a cop's murder four years before. She'd managed to restrain her anger and keep from killing him outright during the interrogation, though she'd dearly wanted to do it. Then, able to identify her, he'd been set free as a mole -- and had been killed almost as soon as he'd hit the street, in an alley near her apartment.

Ops had been furious when he questioned her. Fortunately, she'd had the sense to use the alibi of truth: Marco O'Brien, who had come to see her after work. She'd expected this, and so had Marco, considering LeVecque's importance as a way into Fraktur, a new paramilitary group. Both of them had survived Ops' displeasure. When asked who she thought had shot LeVecque, Nikita said she didn't know. She knew Marco would have to say the same thing unless asked directly if he'd seen anyone -- and in that situation he'd have to finger Michael, whom he'd seen leaving the alley where the body lay.

After she left, she saw Ops call Michael up into his glass office. She couldn't read his lips, but evidently his answers satisfied Ops. Michael left in one piece, without looking back.

Nikita turned back to her work. She noticed a string of anomalies onscreen; too many data points lining up in the wrong direction, away from the planned sequence. She made note of it and sent her findings to Madeleine. As she wrapped up that file and started on the next one, she saw Birkoff returning from the cafeteria with Walter a few paces behind. Walter veered off toward his office. Birkoff came to her terminal and leaned on her chair, looking over her shoulder at the screen.

"We have to talk."

"What is it?" She felt surprised. "Is there a problem?"

"Not here." He pointed to the screen, as if showing her something on the file. "My place, in an hour."

"Okay." She didn't want it to sound as if she were humoring him, but she honestly had no idea what was bothering him.

When she knocked on the door of his apartment deep within Section, then walked in, he was sitting in a chair and toying with a computer game he'd invented. He didn't look up.

"What is it? It must be pretty important for you to ask me to come here." She sat down near him on the couch.

He didn't move.

"Birkoff?" No response. "Seymour? You all right?"

When he swung his chair around, a tear was sliding down his face but his voice burned like acid.

"Why, Nikita? Aren't we good enough for you? Aren't I good enough?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She stooped in front of him and reached out to wipe the tear, but he flinched away from her hand.

"If you had to choose someone else, why did you pick Michael?"

Shocked, she just stared at him. Her gut instinct told her she was on dangerous ground, but she ignored it. Her voice dropped to a growl. "Whoever told you I'd been with Michael was lying."

He named three ops she knew. "I heard them talking about Michael not showing up where he was supposed to be the night before last. They had a trace on him; he was at your apartment for hours."

She rocked back on her heels, still staring at him. "They're wrong. Michael was never in my apartment two nights ago."

"They're not wrong. I double-checked the trace myself this morning." He tossed the game aside onto a table, where it bounced. This shocked Nikita as much as his words; Birkoff never treated computer equipment casually.

"I'm telling you, I did not see Michael two nights ago. You want to check the recording from the door viewer in my apartment? He's not on it."

He was up and pacing. "You didn't want Walter or me around after you questioned LeVecque."

"That's right," she said. She stood, letting the long muscles in her legs stretch. "I needed some time alone, just as you did after you were captured by the cult. I was remembering too much at once. I sat by the window for hours and watched the rain over the city." She stopped that train of thought, chose another. "You were going to see "Dark Star," Walter said."

He shrugged thin shoulders. "It was ok. Kind of old, no effects." He turned back. "Were you alone all night?" His eyes probed hers, cautious behind his glasses, damp. He waited for her words.

This was going to be tricky, but she'd resolved long ago to be honest with Birkoff regardless of what she had to say. "No, I wasn't." She watched his shoulders tighten until she continued. "Marco O'Brien came over for a while. He heard about LeVecque being in Section, and he wanted to know if I was all right."

"Marco?" Birkoff repeated, as if he'd never heard the word before.

"Yes." She reached out to take his hand, cautiously. It was icy; he had to be truly upset. She gentled her voice. "Marco was a cop at the police station when I was arrested for murder. He knew I'd be thinking about those days, and he thought if I wanted to talk he'd be there for me because he remembered them too."

The tension slowly drained out of Birkoff's shoulders. "Did he stay the night?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes." No lies. "I'm not going to ask him into our trio, if that's the question."

"I wasn't worried about that." He showed her a tentative smile. "What can I say? You didn't mind Gail, or Bobbie. Or Walter's ladylove, Belinda." He shivered involuntarily. "Marco's all right. I was just worried when I'd heard it was Michael."

"Why?" She knew he might not tell her the full reason, his own fear of measuring up against the man he'd been watching for years. She'd thought her caring about him had made him less likely to compare himself to anyone else, but apparently she was wrong. He should know that she wouldn't be with him and Walter unless she wanted to, shouldn't he?

"Michael's going over the edge."

"What makes you say that?" She cast her mind back over the past weeks and months. "This isn't just jealousy, is it?"

"No." His smile returned, a little twisted. "Not just jealousy. Michael's become unpredictable, and that's dangerous. Madeleine's noticed. Ops has noticed; that's why he moved Michael to another assignment."

"Did I miss something here?" Nikita shook her head, confused, and sat down on a couch. "What's going on that I don't know about?"

Birkoff sat down next to her, and reached for her hand to hold. "Michael's been like clockwork for years. Now he ducks out of a surveillance team, and stays out of touch for hours during a mission and never accounts for his time. It's probably only luck that he missed one of the finders on his clothes." Once he'd let his barriers down with her, he'd found that he could talk to her about anything as long as they were touching. "From what Walter's noticed, this isn't the first time, either." He saw that her thoughts were elsewhere. "What is it?"

"Marco thought he saw Michael leaving the alley where LeVecque was killed."

"Does Ops know this?"

"I don't know. Marco was my alibi, and my door electronics will prove it. Ops probably isn't pleased about that, but he can't really object -- we weren't on a mission. But --" she paused to collect her thoughts.

"If Michael was there, where was he?"

"Good question. 'Why' is another question."

"I don't like him tailing you if he's unstable."

"Neither do I." Her eyes were slightly unfocused, staring into the distance. "I'll think about it." She came back to herself and smiled at Birkoff. "Do you want to go out to the park for a while? Get away from this musty recycled air?"

"All that sunshine will ruin my complexion," Birkoff complained, but pulled on a sweatshirt.

***

They were jogging slowly along a track that circled the park when he asked her, "Will Michael make it hard for Marco?"

Nikita knew what he meant. So many small details that could aid or break an operative depended on other operatives. It would be appallingly easy for someone to mess a few of them up. Section had no mercy on that kind of behavior, though, which kept most people in line.

But Michael took another approach to people he saw as problems.

Michael had a record of taking on other ops who got too close to her. She'd seen him and Jurgen beat each other to a pulp once, knowing she was why they'd fought though neither had actually admitted it. He'd never moved toward Mowen, but Mowen had been around during the Jurgen situation and knew what he might be getting into, so Mowen's relationship with her was a bit more formal than he might have liked -- or than she might have liked. She missed Mowen's steady support on missions since he died. He had been kind without being too familiar, and he had been someone she could trust.

So many deaths, all the time. How did Walter manage not to be as hardened to this as Ops and Madeleine? She'd have to ask him sometime.

"Marco can take care of himself, I think," she said, scanning the perimeter of the trees for a tall shadow with dark hair. "I don't think Michael's still that stupid."

"Why not ask him? He's right over there," Birkoff said under his breath, gesturing very slightly toward one side.

Michael read a paper as he sat outside a coffee shop. He wasn't facing them, but he could probably see them moving in a reflection on a shop window.

"That's odd. Isn't he supposed to be on a mission?" she asked.

Birkoff shook his head. "In Paris, training Soraya. They left yesterday."

"It's not like Michael to leave a new op alone," she muttered.

They exchanged disturbed glances.

She said, "Soraya's a strange one, isn't she?"

"That's for sure. You know, she tried to take Michael down in Munitions the other day?"

"Right on the main floor? What happened? Was Walter there?"

He nodded. "Michael handled it. She's no good at combat."

"Too bad for her. Snooty little thing, isn't she?"

Birkoff grunted. "She's not on Walter's flirt list, that's for sure."

The beeper that Birkoff carried whenever he was outside buzzed at him, and in unison the two of them turned and headed back toward Section. The shape on the park bench stayed put, slowly turning the page of his newspaper.

***

Operations stood, watching movement on the main floor as a diversion for his thoughts. When his door slid open, he was surprised to find Nikita there.

"I can come back later," she offered.

"No, come in." He never quite knew what to expect from her, so he treated her with respect and a courteous kindness rather than the sarcasm of the past. He sat on the edge of his desk. "Is there something you wanted to ask me?"

"Have you had any complaints about my performance lately?"

This surprised him, and it showed on his face. "No. None at all. Your overall performance is satisfactory, and in some recent missions it's been exemplary. Is there a problem?"

She shook her head. "Then why am I under surveillance?"

He knew she didn't mean the customary tracking that all operatives had to get used to, for their own safety. "What's going on?"

"I found these in my apartment." She dropped something on the table that looked vaguely like a metallic dead fly. "I don't like this a bit. Either you trust me, or you don't. And if it's not you, who is it?"

"This could be one of ours, but I didn't authorize it." Ops took a closer look at the bug and hit his intercom. "Madeleine, have you authorized any surveillance on Nikita?"

"No. If she's compromised she should be relocated," Madeleine reminded him. "I agree." He switched off the intercom. "Other groups use these also -- Red Cell, Fraktur. We'll move you immediately."

She had turned to look down at the main floor as he spoke to Madeleine. Nothing unusual: Birkoff directing computer work, Walter unpacking machine pistols. "I think it's in-house; I wanted to make sure it wasn't coming from you."

"This is connected with the LeVecque incident, isn't it?" he said.

She nodded. "I have no proof."

"Get some. I'll call Cleanup for your things." He had his own thoughts on who might want to check on her.

She was still watching the floor. "I have an idea." As she told him her thoughts, he watched her face. Her trap made sense to him.

"Fine. If you want other support, keep me posted. I don't want this to affect Section."

She turned a clear-eyed view on him. "It won't."

"Make sure it doesn't." His lips turned up slightly at the corners, not a genuine smile but a loosening of tension. "You have a future with us, but Section comes first."

She nodded her thanks to him, and left. He watched her walk across the floor past Michael's empty office to speak to Walter, then stride into a hallway out of sight. At the rate she was progressing, she would soon be eligible for rating as a Level Three operative.

Michael was off on a training mission with Soraya, somewhere in France. He was due back in two days or so. Operations had a strong feeling that Michael was behind this; if Nikita could not resolve the situation he would deal with it himself. Just because Michael was Level Five did not mean everything he did could be condoned.

***

"I don't want you involved in this," she told Walter, who grunted.

"Sugar, I'm involved already. Ops knows this. So do you."

"Don't push, Walter. Please."

"All right." He looked at her with love in his eyes. "If you can't deal with him, I will." He didn't even say what they were both thinking.

"If I can't deal with him, Ops will deal with me. Then where will we be?"

"True." He reloaded the handgun she'd given to him a day earlier to test; it had a tendency to jam when she used it at the firing range. "Try it again; I fixed the mechanism."

"Thanks." She slipped the little weapon into a pocket.

"You've got plans?" One of his eyebrows rose. "Is Seymour in this with you?"

"Not yet, but he will be." She smiled at him. "I have a few ideas." She headed off down a hallway and rounded a corner.

When nobody else was in sight she ducked into an unused office and called up the assignment roster on the computer. She knew Michael might not be listed, but Soraya would be. Sure enough, Soraya had been posted to Paris to check on dissidents; she wouldn't have gone there alone. She'd left yesterday, almost certainly with Michael. LeVecque had died the night before, when Michael was supposed to be working with Roque's team.

He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't due back for two or three days. He was supposed to be with Soraya.

Was he?

This changed her plans a little, but not much. In fact, it made some things easier.

***

Anything is possible in Section One, given persuasion, access to data, and a plausible goal that furthers Section's purposes.

Absolutely anything.

What is surprising is how often Section operatives forget this completely.

***

"O'Brien." He put his cell phone to his ear.

"Meet me for dinner. LaFontaine, at six. Unless."

"Got it." The phone went dead.

Unless a war broke out, or terrorists grabbed hostages, or the world ended in fire and ice, he'd be there to meet her.

***

Birkoff dealt with the computer chaos that had enveloped his crew, then sat back to review incoming data. No new fires to put out. He finished his work and flipped to his personal message file. A note from Nikita told him she'd call him and Walter later; good. He'd seen her talking to Operations, then Walter; he didn't like feeling left out.

***

"You want to what?"

"I want to move in with you for a while. Any objections?" Nikita speared a shrimp with the small-tined fork she'd been given and dipped it into cocktail sauce. She nibbled at it as she watched Marco's face work through expressions ranging from wary shock to anticipation.

"Why?"

"I could say it's for our mutual safety, but it's not."

"Oh, good," he murmured. "I didn't want to be bored." He picked up a roll and busied himself with splitting and buttering it. "Why do we always have these conversations in restaurants?"

"Because of the food, of course." She smiled, and he had to respond with a smile in return.

"So, you want to trap LeVecque's killer." He saw her nod. "And you think it's who I saw."

"It could be." She took one of the small metallic fake flies from her purse and set it on the table. "Search your apartment when we get back for one of these. This one's been inactivated."

"Not ours?" He picked it up and put it in a pocket.

"We're not sure."

"Uh-huh. What else is going on in that lovely blonde head of yours? I'm assuming you're not overwhelmed with passion for me?"

"Do you want me to be?" she asked, seriously.

He shook his head. "Too much of a complication, right now. Just friends?"

"Just friends. Much easier on both of us, right now."

"So how are your mates taking this move? Have you told them yet?" He was still bemused by the thought of her ongoing relationship with Walter and Birkoff, even after several months.

"I wanted to wait until I'd talked with you. Birkoff should be fine; I've said a little to him already. Walter... may object."

"To me?"

She smiled and swallowed the last of the shrimp. "No, to staying on the sidelines."

"I doubt he'll stay there willingly."

"So do I." She smiled at the waiter as her appetizer was removed and the main course arrived. When the waiter left, after refilling their wine glasses, she said, "I'd like to go home with you tonight to start this right."

"Sure thing. Might as well get the rumor mill going full blast all at once." He held up his wineglass and clinked it against hers. "A toast -- to a long and beautiful friendship."

"No one can object to that," she agreed.

He leaned forward to kiss her over their wineglasses. If they had to start rumors, he'd make sure they were enjoyable ones.

***

By the time she called, Walter had given up pacing the floor and was repeatedly dismantling and reassembling weaponry he could maneuver without even looking at it.

"Stop fussing," Birkoff said. He was reprogramming the computer game he'd brought to Walter's place; it kept sending error messages since his conversation with Nikita.

"How many times have you reworked that program?" Walter commented. "Let me fuss in my own way, kid, all right?"

Birkoff got up to go to the fridge for a beer; on his way past Walter he patted him on the head. Walter swung a blind punch at him that Birkoff easily avoided. On the way back he handed the older man a cold beer that Walter took from him without even glancing up. As he opened the can the secure phone rang.

"Nikita. What's up?

"Birkoff there too? Good. As of now, it's plan A."

"When?"

"Tomorrow when I get to work. Your office; it's public enough to start things."

"Oh, you want me to be the bad guy." Walter grunted.

"Of course -- but be gentle."

"Just for you, sugar. What about Birkoff?"

"Put him on. Hi, Seymour. Plan A, and personnel, tomorrow." "Got it. No problem. You take care."

"You too. Don't go out on any long limbs."

"Me? I don't go out, except with you."

"Yeah, right. Say hi to Bobbie for me." She hung up.

Birkoff put the phone down on the table. "This is going to be interesting."

"Just protective coloration. It doesn't change anything. Ops knows, doesn't he?"

"Probably, but don't depend on him for support."

"Right."

They continued working on their projects for a few minutes, then Birkoff muttered, "If it's Michael, and if Nikita gets hurt --"

"Get in line," Walter told him. "Just because I'm in-house doesn't mean I have to stay there."

***

The shouting match the next day caught the computer staff by surprise. Most of the cold ops who were there noticed each other surreptitiously following the loud voices coming from the Armory, not that they could hear exact words through the metal doors that Walter closed as soon as Nikita arrived. His face looked like a thunderstorm as he slammed the dividers down.

It didn't matter. Everyone saw Nikita stalk out of Walter's territory, raging mad, to run directly into an icy-faced Operations who called her immediately into his office. Nobody wanted to attract Ops' attention when he was in one of his moods, so they turned away as soon as she was up there, but eyes slid toward that glass wall to see how she was taking it. A few felt genuinely sorry for her, for it appeared through the glass that she was getting the tongue-lashing of her life.

***

The actual conversation would have amazed them.

"I see Marco has agreed to act as bait. Good. Any other progress?"

Her posture remained wary, as if she were enduring a scolding. "Birkoff is checking on personnel, helping Walter set up surveillance."

"If you need someone else, I'll release Rick from his current assignment." His back was to the window. "You can let yourself go a little more, for the sake of the audience."

"Yes, sir." She let a tear fall, and brushed her hair back rebelliously.

"Very good."

"Rick would be good," she agreed, with a hand gesture somewhere between anger and pleading. Rick had been Mowen's best friend in Section, experienced and capable, and they'd worked together before.

She caught Ops' eye, and knew he was waiting for her to say something, probably even guessing what she'd say, so she said it. "I saw Michael in the park down the street yesterday. Wasn't he supposed to be in Paris?"

"Are you sure?" Operations spun on his heel to face her, all acting aside.

"Yes. Birkoff saw him too; we were jogging on the track there."

Operations paced for a moment, aware that he was putting on a good show for the onlookers on the main floor -- but it wasn't all show any more. A Level Five operative disobeying orders could cause a crisis for all of Section.

"You didn't tell me yesterday because you wanted to have Birkoff check it. Am I right?"

She nodded.

"Not a word of this to anyone else. Report only to me. I'll deal with Madeleine and the others." He looked furious. "Go on, get out of here while it still looks as if I'm yelling at you." His voice softened only a little. "I appreciate what you're doing, Nikita. Within limits, you may choose your own reward when this is over." He raised his voice again, "Now, get out of here!"

She left his office. Stalking down the stairs, she passed Walter by as if he weren't there.

Birkoff studiously avoided looking at her -- S.O.P. for Section One when someone had argued with Ops and lost. Instead, he put his part of the plan into action, scanning the assignments file and running timing and availability figures through the back of his mind. He sent the results on a secure channel to Nikita as soon as she signaled him from the remote office she'd chosen.

***

  


>   
> \--Oct. 1, last year Michael on mission with Rick, Pastoris, Cleo. Missing from transmission by himself for an hour; blamed weather.
> 
> \--April 4, Michael and Nikita on location in the Balkans; transmission failure for several hours; blamed distance, location, weather, equipment.
> 
> \--July 12 Michael missing from mission for two days; said he was out of range. Other ops killed by enemy; Michael sole survivor...  
> 

  
Nikita kept reading. The list of coincidences, if they were that, was damning. She knew Birkoff wouldn't send her anything he couldn't document. Michael's missions had more verified transmission downtime than anyone else's in years -- why had nobody noticed this?

She remembered the Balkan mission; yes, they'd been cut off from their electronics for several hours, long enough for Michael to make an impassioned plea for her to be with him -- or as impassioned as Michael ever became. Could he have rigged the cutoff? She didn't know.

Was Michael putting his own agenda ahead of Section's priorities? What was his agenda?  


>   
> \--July 27 Michael on solo surveillance, transmission failure 23.7 hours, returns with target.
> 
> \--August 18 Michael and Mowen on patrol in Turkey, transmission failure nearly makes them miss their return flight.  
> 

  
She started making up her own list to give Walter, of dates and equipment checked in and out and its condition, without Michael's name attached. If someone was checking his equipment in and out for him, that might be the culpret. If not -- they'd have to check so many things to seal this up tight, there was no way he wouldn't catch on. She'd have to think of a way to handle him when he showed up.  


>   
> \--August 25 Michael fails to appear for surveillance work; tracked to 347 Marott Place
> 
> \--August 25 LeVecque killed in alley at 325 Marott Place.
> 
> \--August 27 Michael "out of range" while working with Soraya in Paris. Seen near Section One in the park at same time.  
> 

  
Nikita put the list down and took a deep breath. She had to be absolutely certain before bringing this to Ops, but there didn't seem to be a way out. Her head was pounding already.

***

For a few days, nothing unlikely happened. Nikita went to Section, worked on Madeleine's assignments or went out on short missions, and came home to Marco, who was undergoing advanced training and going on short, relatively local missions. They ate together, slept together, and presented the appearance of new lovers to the world.

***

Whatever isn't acknowledged doesn't officially exist. If it doesn't exist, it isn't a problem. If it's not a problem, nobody has to do anything.

***

Nikita came home later one night after a week with Marco. She'd taken a different route each night, and a different time. The apartment was dark; Marco was on a mission, expected back very late. As usual, she checked the door for signs of entry and found none. She walked in, closed the door behind her and turned on a light.

Michael sat in an armchair facing her, his face impassive.

"What are you doing here?" Nikita asked, scanning the rooms for other intruders. She backed up against the wall and pressed an unobtrusive button on the switchplate to turn on a set of cameras throughout the apartment. "I don't remember inviting you here, Michael."

"I came to warn you."

"To warn me?" She crossed to a table where she knew Marco kept a pistol in the drawer. Her own weapon was in her coat pocket; sometimes it helped to make the opponent think you were unarmed. Michael was thorough; he had to have checked that drawer already.

"Yes. Stay out of this." He was on his feet now, an arm past her blocking her movement.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." Michael glanced past her around the apartment. "All this elaborate play-acting isn't working, Nikita. Nobody's believes you dropped Walter and Birkoff for this man."

"Why should I care what they believe?" she said. "So, why are you here?"

He shook his head, never taking his eyes off her. "Nikita, you were never good at lying to me. I can smell a set-up like this from miles away." He moved forward, blocking her escape. "If you really loved him, you'd be glowing with it -- I've seen you look like that."

Only once -- when he'd brought her back to Section after six months outside, making love to her to convince her to return -- and then ignoring her, snubbing her, setting her aside. Under all the obvious Section motivations, she had never been sure whether he had allowed his emotions to decide his actions or just acted to make things more convincing. All the weeks of waiting in abeyance to learn if she'd be accepted again hadn't changed that thought.

She wrenched away from him, furious, and came up with the pistol from her pocket. She knew this one was loaded. "Will you get out now, or do I have to call for Housekeeping?"

"You won't shoot me, Nikita." He leaned toward her, ignoring the weapon, one arm still blocking her path. "You want to know what's going on, and you won't let me leave until I tell you."

"Then tell me." She kept him covered, ready to shoot when she wished. "Why did you kill LeVecque?"

Michael looked at her straight on, no dodging. "He was a danger to Section."

"Not that much of a danger, since Ops sent him out again."

"He could identify you. That was enough."

Nikita watched him warily. His responses sounded routine, ordinary. Too predictable. "Is that all?"

"He was stalking you. I followed him to your place and took him out just as he was figuring out which apartment was yours."

"Oh, you've appointed yourself my guardian angel?" She let the sarcasm slide through like a knife. He never moved, but she could sense a change in his mood. She pressed on, lowering the gun just a little. "Why did you bug my apartment?"

"Is that what you think?" One of his eyebrows rose in lazy surprise. "Why would I do that?"

"You tell me." She'd noticed long ago that he'd often ask questions instead of denying something obvious, as if he could make her forget what was happening by trying to change the subject.

"You're still assuming I did it." Calm, controlled.

She responded with equal control. "You were traced to my apartment for several hours the night that LeVecque was killed -- and I didn't invite you, so you must have been out on the porch." Her eyes narrowed a little. "Turning into a voyeur? I didn't think that was how you got your kicks, Michael."

"I told you about that." He shrugged. "We're all voyeurs in Section."

"There was no reason for you to hang around me. How did you know LeVecque even existed? You were supposed to be out on surveillance, not tracking him." He nodded slightly, acknowledging a hit. "Sometimes my actual responsibilities are different from the official version. So are yours. That's the way Section works."

Ah. Now we're getting somewhere. "Suppose you tell me what your actual responsibilities were, then."

"That's classified."

"Uh-huh. I suppose it's classified that you're running out on your training duties as well."

His face grew stern. "Stay out of it, Nikita, for your own health." He turned as if to leave.

"Or what?"

"I'll make sure you are out of it."

"Is that a threat," she said, and leveled the gun at him. "Am I the only one you're threatening?"

"Have it your way, Nikita; I won't be responsible for the consequences."

She noticed he still hadn't admitted being at her apartment. "What gives you the right to tell me what to do? We're not on a mission. I'm not your material any more." She spat the words at him.

"No, you're not." He turned and moved toward her, pushed the pistol aside and pinned her to the wall, easily, telling her with his movements that he knew he could do this at any time whether she wanted it or not. He hit the pressure point in her arm that made her drop the pistol, and it slid down the wall to the floor and went off, hitting the far wall. He stood so close to her that she couldn't draw up her knee to kick him away, studied her for a moment, then lowered his head and kissed her, a strong kiss full of knowledge that had nothing of tenderness in it.

She held still, partly because she had little choice. When he started to kiss her she turned her head away but he caught her mouth under his own and she couldn't move any more. She could feel his heartbeat through his sweater; they might as well have been naked. She let herself be kissed, but tried not to respond, though the effort to hold back made her tremble. She did manage to touch the trace button she'd slipped onto her fingertip from the gun barrel to the underside of his sleeve cuff; wherever he went, they'd know.

Without a word he let go of her, stepped back and went toward the door.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. "What was that about?"

He turned at the door. "Just as I thought. You don't love Marco, or Walter or Birkoff. It's all a blind. You want me, not them."

She could only stand and stare at him.

"Not that it'll do you any good," he added as he closed the door. He was gone before she could pick up the pistol.

***

"Birkoff? You're right. Now what do we do?"

"We watch him."

"I have to report to Ops on this."

A pause. "Do what you have to do. It's his problem."

Nikita wasn't sure which 'he' was meant, but it didn't matter.

***

"Report, Nikita."

"Michael came to the apartment today. He admitted killing LeVecque, said he was a danger to Section. He acted ... irrational." She handed Operations a disk. "This is from the recorder in the living room."

"How irrational?" Ops turned the disk over in his hand. Nikita hated surveillance; for her to have agreed to it meant she was profoundly disturbed by what was going on.

"A number of things he said didn't sound like Michael," she said, trying to sound businesslike. "You'll see."

"Good work. We'll keep up the trap for a while longer. I need concrete information in order to move on this."

She nodded and left. Operations put the disk into a drive and sat down to view what had happened. When he saw Michael's final maneuver his eyebrows snapped together in a frown.

Whose game was Michael trying to play -- his own or someone else's, and whose game might that be? It wasn't Section's game, either his or Madeleine's.

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop as he thought. Michael's moves were too obvious; the man was usually much more subtle than that. It had to be a ploy to indicate that he was under orders from someone else -- and the only "someone else" who could give Michael orders without Operations' agreement was Oversight.

***

Marco came in warily, to find Nikita sitting in the living room with her pistol in her lap. "He was here, wasn't he?"

She nodded and waved a hand toward the wall. "I hate spackling. We'll have to get it repainted."

"It might start a new fashion." He put a hand on her shoulder, and she leaned her head against his arm and sighed. "You look like you could stand some comforting."

She nodded. "I used to be so strong, Marco. Now I feel like a child inside." She put the gun aside and came to her feet. He traced the tiny scars on her face with a fingertip, so lightly she could barely feel his touch. None of those scars had been there when he'd seen her in the lockup four years ago.

"I wouldn't worry about that," he said. His lips brushed her hair and met hers. "Let's go get off our feet together."

***

"Yes, I've noticed Michael behaving oddly; that's one reason I didn't want him transferred," Madeleine said. She toyed with a silver pencil as she talked. "If he's here under our eyes it's safer for all concerned."

"What do you make of the tape?" Operations asked.

"He's play-acting. He must know the place is wired." She paused. "If this is his way to persuade Nikita to join him, it's not working."

"He's playing a deep game. I don't like it." Ops shifted in his chair. "I suspect Oversight."

Madeleine's eyebrows rose, but she nodded. "It would make sense. Nobody else can veto what we do. I don't like it at all." She put the pencil down and regarded him thoughtfully. "How do you plan to deal with this?"

"We could isolate him, but that would backfire in the end. I suggest bringing him and Soraya fully into Section, where we can keep a better eye on what's happening."

"And if that just gives him more ability to interfere?"

"There's always the final option. I'd like not to use it with Michael, but it's there."

Madeleine nodded again, slowly. "Keep in mind, it would take time to train another Level Five operative."

"He's not our only operative at Level Five or higher."

Madeleine's eyes widened. Ops nodded. "Walter."

Madeleine turned in her chair, toying with her pen and running calculations in her mind. "It could work. We can move someone over to cover his duties for a short time." She sighed. "You're right. If we have to cancel Michael, we can use Walter as a trainer. I hope it doesn't come to that; such a change would upset the routine too much."

***

Birkoff followed the trace on Michael. It was one of the new ones, set to react to other electromagnetic devices in such a way that it laid a trail he could find hours later. Then Section's video could zoom in on the location.

He hadn't followed it long when he realized that Michael had found the trace and attached it to a stray dog that was running its paws off chasing rabbits in a field.

***

"It's always the stuff you don't expect that gets you," Walter muttered to himself. He'd returned from lunch to find a message from Madeleine on his com, asking him to come to her office. He hoped it wasn't another trainee; he'd had a few of them in recent years who didn't know a Mauser from a bazooka.

Madeleine smiled at him as he came in. "Walter, do take a seat." She handed him a cup of coffee, with sugar and no cream, just as he liked it, and his eyebrows snapped together with suspicion.

"What is it, Madeleine? I've got the new weapons shipment to work through, and the van needs an overhaul."

"Toby can handle the truck, and the shipment. I have something else for you to do."

Aha. Not retirement or dismissal, but a new task. His ears twitched under his bandana. He took a drink of coffee, as much to indicate to her that he was listening as anything else. Madeleine was many things but not a poisoner.

"I'd like to reactivate you as an op for a special job, outside. Are you interested?"

He nodded. "Does this have to do with Nikita's project?"

She tilted her head sideways, considering this. "Michael's behavior may be only a symptom of something larger. Find out who he's getting his orders from, and what that will mean to Section. You have complete support and autonomy."

"What's my cover?"

"Our people will be told that you are assisting Section Six in training their new weapons master. You've done this before, so it won't be questioned."

He paused, then said, "If I find something on Michael, do I hang him out to dry?"

Her reply was as smooth as fine whiskey, and her face as cold as the bottle that held it. "It would be regrettable, of course, but if you must take action for the safety of Section we would back you up. Then you would be the highest-level operative in Section One again, until we could train, transfer or promote someone else."

***

It was a test; it was always a test, coming from Madeleine. He knew that he'd have to have ironclad facts to back him up if he even got close to cancelling Michael, but he wasn't worried about that.

She had to know he'd tell Birkoff; Madeleine would count on him letting Birkoff know everything -- except his final orders to kill Michael if necessary. He'd have to be careful how he told Nikita. She was under enough strain at the moment.

He strode back to his office and started clearing away projects, changing their status, moving some to trainees and alternate timelines. Cordero could take over as weapons master temporarily, checking materiel in and out.

It didn't take long for Birkoff to notice Walter's activity. When he saw Walter drop a piece of cloth over the top edge of the viewscreen on his desk, he nodded once, acknowledging the signal. He'd be at Walter's tonight to find out what was going on.

***

"It's been a long time since I had something like this. I could get used to it." Marco whispered into Nikita's hair as they curled together in bed.

"Please don't." Her voice was as soft as his. "It's too dangerous."

"I know." He slid around until they were facing each other, nose to nose. "I know it's temporary. Besides, you're not the only love in my life," he said lightly. "I can fall in love with a girl walking down the street inside of a minute."

"Joker." She smiled at him, relaxed, and ran her fingers through his wiry hair. "I didn't realize you were such a romantic."

"But of course, ma cherie." His voice took on a thick French accent. "Come with me to the Casbah -- no, on second thought, forget that. I was there two weeks ago and it's a mess."

Her smile was as wry as his own. "It's this sophisticated life we lead -- we're always the first to know when the hot places go bad."

"So, where do we go now?" His face grew serious. "What's the next step in this plan, Nikita?"

"I'll know after I hear from Walter." Her eyes focused over his shoulder, with an expression of distance and pain that he knew from seeing it in his own mirror. "Anything could happen."

***

When Birkoff reached Walter's place the lights were on in the kitchen. Walter, Nikita and Marco sat around the table drinking Walter's float-a-mouse coffee, waiting for him. Nikita jumped up to kiss Birkoff as he sat down, and Marco smiled, a little uncomfortably.

"Chill, dude. It's cool," Birkoff told him. "You're not a problem."

"I'm glad," the ex-cop said. "I can't deal with more than one of you at a time anyway."

"Man's got to know his limitations," Walter commented, in a Clint Eastwood voice. "What's up, Birkoff?"

"Michael's staying with Soraya most of the time, but there are two more out-of-range reports in the last two days." He handed them printouts of the times he'd noted. "Ops is nervous."

"I can account for one of them." Nikita told them about Michael's visit. Walter's eyes narrowed as he listened, and he drank his coffee without noticing how cold it had become. Birkoff stared through his glasses, worrying at a pencil eraser.

"Here's something you don't know," Walter said quietly. "Madeleine's made me active again until this is over. Full authority. She wants the skinny on Michael, and no fooling around."

"What level?" Marco asked.

"Level Six."

"Six?" Marco thought hard. Nobody was a six. "That's equal authority to Ops."

"That's right," Walter said. He stirred more sugar into his coffee. "What's the word on Soraya? Could she be involved in this?"

Nikita pursed her lips. "It's possible," she said slowly. "Soraya's got attitude; she demanded to see Ops last week because she said the way she was being treated went beyond her contract."

"Contract?" Birkoff's eyes met Nikita's. "Nobody in Section has a contract."

"She thinks she does, and Michael humored her." Nikita remembered the self-defense workout she'd given Soraya. "Birkoff, can you check that out?"

"How was she recruited?" Marco asked. "I've got to assume it wasn't one of the usual ways." He looked around the room at shaking heads. Nobody knew.

Walter shrugged. "Let's get back to topic, people. Maybe she's involved, maybe not. I'm going to be out there shadowing them, and I may call you in for backup at short notice. You'll have to make your own accommodation with Ops; I'm under Madeleine's orders in this, not his."

"Love that territoriality," Birkoff muttered.

"What do you want me to do?" Marco asked.

"Check things out from the training side. Find out what's being said about her. Be creative."

"Creativity. Right."

***

Soraya and Michael came back in for a day, then went out again to an embassy party in Geneva to protect a diplomat's wife from kidnapping. After that, they headed toward a sleepy town on the Swiss-German border, where an espionage ring was planning to blow up a hydroelectric dam and drown several cities in the floodwaters of the Rhine. Soraya's sharpshooting took care of that.

Then they disappeared.

***

"There's nothing in Soraya's files about a contract." Birkoff looked peeved. "Here. See for yourself."

Nikita looked over his shoulder. "What's that?"

"What?"

"That symbol, on her shirt." She pointed to something like a double ampersand, hidden in the pattern on the material. "Where have I seen it before?"

"Let's check." He ran a cross-check through the system. "Interesting. Very interesting." He ran his finger down the description on the screen. "It's an outdated sigil used for a very short time by Red Cell. She might be a defector."

"They don't let anyone defect." Nikita's eyes met Birkoff's. "Do they?"

"Not without a purpose." Birkoff said. "Where's Walter now?"

"Send to his remote. He's supposed to check in tonight."

"Someone should have caught this before." Birkoff's eyes met hers. "The only ones with access to this file -- officially -- are Ops and Madeleine."

"Maybe she's undercover?"

"Who's she working for?"

***

Walter moved along the narrow street quietly, just another working bloke from the docks on his way home after a long day. That part of London was filled with small streets intersecting at odd angles, not far from Limehouse, where Bloody Jack had ripped his way into history. It hadn't changed much in centuries, down near the river, though modern pollution control vastly improved the smell of river water.

Michael was ahead of him, heading toward Piccadilly. Walter could pick him out of a crowd easily; he was never able to hide his walk, regardless of his disguise. At the moment he was just out of sight, but not out of range; he'd been sighted by chance by an operative finishing a mission near the Channel Tunnel. Pure luck, finding him in a crowd shot and Soraya nearby.

Birkoff had caught him with the word on Soraya just as he was heading out. He could see one or two reasons why Ops would accept her -- but not as a full operative, only as an outside source. Unless Ops was indulging his attraction to good-looking female operatives, Birkoff considered Soraya's connection with Red Cell to be an anomaly. He hadn't found anything about her in their entire databank on Red Cell.

Walter had other ideas, less to do with Red Cell than with the infighting that went on almost routinely under the surface of the Sections and their overseeing agencies.

He caught a flash of green fabric out of the corner of his eye, against the worn brickwork, and ducked into the door of a pub, where he pretended to make a phone call while watching the windows. Yes, that was Soraya -- using Michael as bait, coming back to pick him off. She was a good enough shot to do it in the middle of a dockworkers' pub, too, but he had no intention of dying yet. He slid upstairs toward the rooms for rent, climbed out a window and up a heavy drainpipe, and reached the roof. Ducking behind a chimney, he held his breath as Soraya scanned the area. When she turned, giving him a good view of the side of her neck, he shot her with a tranquilizer dart. She crumpled behind some bins at the mouth of an alley. He slid down the pipe, moved up cautiously -- yes, she was out, not faking it -- and pulled her behind a bin where she'd be out of view. She'd be out for four hours.

Long enough.

He knew Michael would circle back as soon as Soraya failed to respond to him. All he had to do was wait. He moved to a position where he could see Soraya without easily being seen. It didn't matter if he showed up on Michael's IR scanners -- he'd just look like a drunk. Back when Section first started implanting tracers in its agents, he'd already been brought in from the cold to run weapons; he'd never needed to be traced, so they saved the then- precious tracers for the cold ops. As far as Michael was concerned, he was as close to invisible as he could be.

***

Within fifteen minutes Michael was back, stooping beside Soraya's body to check her pulse and looking around. He assured himself that she would live, and started to scan the area for enemy ops, but the only life forms he could find were innocuous, workmen and their girlfriends out on a Friday night. As he glided down the alley and around a jog toward the next street, a heavy hand struck the pressure point in his arm and he dropped his pistol. A sack went over his head, the pressure of a cold muzzle touched his neck, and he felt himself being dragged into a convenient doorway. He let himself go heavy, which didn't seem to make much difference, and waited to see who had ambushed him.

He was shoved into a chair, and his arms tied behind him, before the sack came off. When he saw Walter's face, he gave a humorless laugh.

"Care to tell me what's so funny?" the weapons master of Section One inquired.

"You are. Why follow me here instead of contacting me on the com?"

"Funny thing; the com doesn't work with you around. Now, why is that?"

"All right, Walter, what's going on?" His fingers worked at the knots in the rope.

Walter leaned back against a crate. "That's what I've been sent to ask you. Are you rogue?"

Michael sat motionless. "What makes you think that?"

"A dozen things or more. Answer the question."

"I'm under orders."

"You're under new orders. Corollary One, as of now." Walter's eyes narrowed and his face grew grim. "Under Corollary One, you are required to tell me every detail of anything I need to know in order to complete my assignment, and I don't have to tell you a thing. I outrank you, Michael. Start talking."

Corollary One could only be invoked by a Level Five or higher, speaking to another Level Five op. It overrode all other orders, including mandatory refusal. It had only been invoked once before in the history of Section One.

"What is your assignment?" Michael asked, trying to make it sound like a reasonable question.

"Answer the question. Are you rogue?"

"Depends on your definitions. I've been co-opted by Oversight."

"For how long?"

"About eight months. They've been using me to gather additional information during missions."

"With what purpose?"

"Control of Section, what else?"

"What leverage did they use on you?"

Michael was silent.

"What leverage, Michael?" Walter's voice grew harsh. "Money? Freedom?"

Michael's dark eyes burned. "Nikita. They said they have proof that she was free for six months and not held captive. They said they knew I had helped her escape, and helped her return. If I didn't cooperate, she'd die and they'd turn me in to Madeleine."

Walter pulled a deep breath. "Boy, you're in a shitload of trouble, aren't you, and you drag the rest of us down with you." He shook his head. "And because it concerned Nikita's escape you couldn't just go to Ops to have it handled, could you? Ops would give his own balls to get the goods on Oversight."

"I didn't want him to give my blood, or hers." Michael pointed out. "Are you going to cancel me?"

"I don't know. I'm reporting to Madeleine, not Ops, on this one." Walter blinked as the pieces fitted together in his mind. "Soraya is from Oversight, isn't she? Not a renegade from Red Cell."

Michael nodded. "She has a private contract with Section One as a sharpshooter, not a full cold op. But she was recruited from Red Cell."

"And you let her live?"

"It was ... expedient at the time." Michael shrugged. "I had to keep Oversight happy."

"So this crazy bit -- hanging out in the park, shadowing Nikita -- is a cover."

"Of course it is. What did you expect me to do, walk up to Operations and tell him I'd helped Nikita to freedom and concealed this for more than a year? And that it was now being used as leverage?" Michael's temper, never certain, was fraying. "Use your head, old man."

"Not too old to put you in your place." Walter brought one of his newest pistols out of a coat pocket. It was plastic, with teflon-coated bullets that would penetrate body armor. "I have full authority to cancel you right now if you pose a threat to Section One."

"And if I cancel you, it will be a regrettable mistake and I'll be transferred to Oversight." Michael couldn't reach a weapon at the moment, but he'd found factual speech as good as a pistol at times. "And you know how long Section's secrets will last then."

Walter suppressed a shiver. Oversight's methods made Madeleine look lenient.

"So, tell me why I shouldn't plug the hole in Section's security by killing you and Soraya. You know that's what Section would have me do."

"It wouldn't solve the larger problem, that they know about Nikita's time away."

Damn it, he was right. "What've they got on her?"

"Signatures, wage slips from a job she worked at, that kind of thing. She was a waitress for a while, lived on a boat. The signatures don't have her name, but it's her handwriting. I think they're in a vault in the center of the business district here."

"In London? Makes sense." It was far away from Section's usual Third World territory, not a place anyone would normally look. "When do you have to report to them again?"

"11 p.m."

"That's an hour from now; we've still got time to talk about some other things."

Michael shifted in his chair. "Such as?"

"LeVecque. How was he part of this?"

"Pure fluke. He framed her for murder; that's why she was sent up. Madeleine had Nikita interrogate him as a test. He was unstable, wanted to play with her. That's why I took him out."

"Tell me about Nikita."

"I have nothing to say."

"Let her alone, Michael. She's found a life for herself. Don't mess it up."

Michael shook his head slowly. "You're saying this because she's yours."

"Nikita belongs to herself, not to me or Birkoff or anyone else. Let her go, man."

"I did let her go -- and I regret every day of it." Michael's voice softened to a hoarse whisper. "I didn't have the nerve to stand up to Ops for her, or to oppose Madeleine. I couldn't take another loss, like before." Another loss like losing his beloved wife, and his son, to Section's priorities. "You think you love her, old man. Think again. You have her. I can't. All I can do is protect her from things she didn't start, and hope she'll be alive when it's over. She'll never be mine." Michael stared into the darkness as if waiting for a pair of clear blue eyes to open in its depths and look at him. "But I can't stop. She's the only one who's kept me sane."

They stared at each other in silence.

"I'm sorry," Walter said finally. "I can't fix that. I can't change Ops and Maddy, may their so-called souls rot in Hell. I can't do anything except deal with Oversight to protect Nikita and Section. And I'll try to keep you alive while we do it. But I don't give a damn about you, Michael, nothing personal."

"Understood." Michael undid the last knot and stretched his arms. "We're working together, then?"

"Yes, but not Soraya. She has to go, Michael. One way or another."

"I'll take care of it." Michael checked his watch. "It's time for me to call in."

***

Nikita awoke in the darkness. Through the curtains she could see the pale sky of a winter's dawn. Beside her lay Marco, asleep and warm. She couldn't say what had wakened her, until she realized that a tiny light was blinking at her from across the room. She slipped out of bed to pick up the comset and moved into the bathroom to activate it.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Walter found Michael," Birkoff said. "In London."

"And?"

"It's a problem with Oversight. Walter's dealing with it."

"Does he need backup?"

"Not yet. He'll call back in a few hours."

"This doesn't sound right," she said. "What's Michael got to do with Oversight?"

"Apparently Oversight found something on Section personnel that they were going to use to shut us down, and they've been blackmailing Michael. Don't know what it is."

Nikita felt her mind take a leap in the darkness and land on the only certainty that she knew anyone could hold over Michael. "Doesn't matter," she told Birkoff. "Let me know when he needs me to move."

"Right now he just wants data on Oversight's London HQ. I've sent what we have. It's not much."

***

"Nobody in Training likes Soraya. She's too arrogant," Marco said to Birkoff as he paused at the coffee counter.

"Nobody likes anyone in Training." Birkoff shrugged. "They don't want to get close to material in case there's a problem."

"It's more than that," Marco insisted. "Look, I went through the military and the police academy before I came here. I've seen this before. Section doesn't encourage emotional ties, but it does try to foster trust. You have to trust that the people you work with on a mission will back you up -- but nobody trusts Soraya for that. If she gets in trouble out there, she'll be on her own." Marco took a swig of coffee. "It's as if she expects to be cut off, so she's doing it first. Not normal behavior here."

Birkoff mentally reviewed all he'd seen of Section behavior, and he had to admit that Marco was right. "I'll tell Walter. Do you think she's psycho?"

"Wouldn't be surprised."

***

Getting into Oversight's buildings was trivial; finding the proper safe was not. The building was a maze of hideyholes, secret tunnels, quick exits and complex locks. Walter had brought his best and newest safecracking tools, but there was no guarantee that he would find the one safe they needed before time ran out.

Birkoff had sent a floor plan that showed some of what they needed, but not enough. Neither Michael nor Soraya could be sent in to gather more data -- Michael, because of his implant chip, and Soraya because of the danger she posed as a traitor. All they'd need would be one person recognizing her, or identifying her on a computer scanner, and the end of Section would be in sight. Fortunately, when Michael emerged he said he'd found a path to a room of safes, hidden in the heart of the building. And Walter had the hunch that was where they'd find the papers.

Soraya had been drugged, secured and left behind; with any luck she'd still be out when they returned, so that her death would be painless. Walter regretted having to kill her; ironic, he thought, that the weapons master disliked killing more than anyone in Section. Regret wouldn't keep him from doing it, though, if Michael failed.

They went in through the basements, from the old storm sewers that had been built long ago and forgotten, through a tunnel that curved upward and emerged as part of a wall on the second floor. Walter went ahead, disabling the electronic eyes that would look for implant chips, and Michael retraced the path he'd found to the secure room. Getting in was too easy, far too easy, Walter thought, steeling himself for difficulty to come.

"Sunovabitch," Walter muttered to himself, standing in a room whose entire walls consisted of locked safes and safe-boxes. "Hand me the universal," he told Michael, who gave him a black box like every other black box. This black box he connected to the electronic system near the door, and pushed a button. After thirty seconds he heard a soft click, then a series of quiet metallic sounds. All the doors on the left wall opened simultaneously.

"There's too much here," Michael said. "We can't take it all."

"You know what to look for," Walter reminded him. "Get started."

It was taking too long, but they didn't have much choice. Walter had brought a good-sized bag with him, and filled it with papers and disks that looked useful to Section. He opened the other two walls, and they went through them the same way -- but nothing on Nikita showed up.

"It's got to be here somewhere," Michael said, as they stared at the panels of open doors they'd already ransacked.

"Careful, kid, you're starting to sound almost human." Walter backed up and scanned the ceiling; nothing there. But the floor...

He turned one more switch on the black box, and the wall panels all closed -- but a square in the middle of the floor retreated under the adjoining tiles, leaving a hole. Michael reached down and brought up a simple metal lockbox, which he burned open with a laser tool. Inside it were a handful of papers in Nikita's handwriting -- as well as others with signatures that looked even more familiar.

***

When they got back to the room where they'd left Soraya, it was empty.

***

Walter put a match to the papers that implicated Nikita, and flushed the ashes down the drain. Michael read the other papers found in the same box, and his face turned into granite.

"Yeah, it's a good thing we took those too. Gives us a nice alibi without bringing in Nikita, doesn't it?" Walter said.

"You're going to turn them over to Madeleine?"

"Sure. Most useful thing to do with them. Keeps us alive, safer than blackmail."

Michael nodded. "I'm going after Soraya," he said. He checked the receiver, and found her location.

"You've got an hour before pickup."

***

It was a good thing Soraya stood in the middle of a crowd, there in Piccadilly Circus. Surrounded so tightly by tourists, she didn't have the space to line up on Michael when he came after her, hit her with another tranquillizer, and carried her away.

"Poor lady, she just fainted with the heat, she did," one street vendor said to another. "I hope she'll be all right."

***

Michael ran to board the plane just as the door was closing. Walter's face lightened when he saw him; he hadn't looked forward to reporting on Michael's demise.

"I'll be with you in a minute; I have to wash up." Michael brushed past him to the bathroom, leaving reddish-brown traces on the seat as he passed.

"Do you need medical?" Walter called after him.

"No."

***

"George, how are you?" Madeleine said into the phone. "You sound upset. Oh, that's too bad. We would certainly be willing to send some operatives to help you with your security problems. Or some of your people could come here to complete their training. No?" She put the receiver down, and looked across her desk at a broadly smiling Operations. "He hung up on me."

"I'm not surprised." Operations smiled broadly. "Walter got the goods on them. I don't think we'll have trouble with Oversight for quite a while."

"Yes, it was clever of him to bring in all the papers and files." Madeleine tilted her head, thinking. "I'm still wondering if that's what he went in for, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Michael passed all the standard tests," Operations reminded her. "His alibi is rock solid."

"I'd expect nothing less from Michael. However -- I'm still not sure why he felt he was under duress for information that didn't concern Section. If he'd come to us, we could have taken care of that problem with his brother quite easily."

"True. I'm not sure we should be the ones to do that, though. If we had tried to patch the wound without disinfecting the whole area, we could be in even more trouble in the future." He tapped his fingertips together. "How is Walter doing?"

"He's returned to his duties, as usual. No problems." Madeleine didn't think this was worth worrying about. "I think he's glad to be back inside again."

"Is he, I wonder?"

***

Officially, Walter's return was nothing special. Birkoff looked up to nod at him as if he'd just come back from lunch. Nikita stopped by to chat, making a visible effort to apologize, and Walter gave her a hug.

"Don't overdo it, sugar. The crowd's bought it," he whispered in her ear. "See you later."

***

"Nikita, come in." Operations waved her toward a chair, and she sat down and accepted the cup of coffee he handed her. "I'd like to talk with you about the recent mission."

"Certainly," she said, composing her face to hide anything too revealing.

"I realize this has put a strain on you, and I want to make sure you feel you are compensated for this. It's not often that a Level Two operative works undercover within Section, and as I think you've found, it's different and often more difficult than working in the field. Personal issues are raised that don't occur in other situations." He leaned back in his chair. "Is there anything I should know that you've discovered about the inner workings of Section that was not in your official report?"

"Actually, yes." She leaned forward a little. "We need to train operatives to work together more as well as independently. If more people had been working with Soraya, we might have noticed her peculiarities sooner."

"Peculiarities -- a good word. Point taken," he said. "Anything else?" She shook her head. "How do you like your new apartment?"

"Very much, thank you." She took a drink of coffee, put the cup back in its saucer. She missed Marco when she rolled over at night, but she wasn't going to tell Ops that. She wanted to ask what was happening to Michael, but knew she would get nowhere. "I've been wondering how Soraya was recruited."

"We captured her during a routine mission, perhaps too routine. I think we will be more stringent in our requirements of material that enters Section by that route." His mouth set firmly for a second. "Sometimes we require certain skills that we cannot find in other places, Nikita. It is a risk we take."

"Am I the only one who noticed the Red Cell sigil on her clothes in her file photo?"

"No, we noticed. What we didn't notice was her familiarity with our procedures; she could only have gotten that by being recruited by Oversight first."

"I see." She tapped her fingers together. "You said I could have anything as a reward."

"Within reason." He held his breath.

"Keep Marco O'Brien in Section One instead of sending him out to Section Four."

She'd surprised him. "Is this a romance I sense?" he said sarcastically.

Nikita shook her head. "He's a good man. He works well with the team we have here. And he's a sharpshooter, with a lot of awards when he was with the police. He can replace Soraya, work with Rick the way Mowen used to."

"I see." Operations steepled his fingers and nodded slowly. "We'd already decided to do this, Nikita. He's going into training for advanced work."

She thought about this a second. Advanced work was only undertaken to fill a need, when someone was missing. "To replace who?"

"Walter will train him, Nikita. He has too many skills for us to waste any of them."

That wasn't an answer and they both knew it. "What will happen to Michael?"

"Disciplinary action. It's not your business, Nikita." He smiled slightly to take the harshness from his words. "He's been involved in a longterm assignment to take down a terrorist leader for some time, but he was --um -- distracted from that in recent months. Now he can give it his full attention." Ops thought of the photo he'd seen recently of the slender dark-haired woman and the small child whose face looked so much like Michael's face. "It's in all our best interests."

"I'm sure it is," Nikita said.

***

"So you're staying around," Walter said. "Pass the pasta."

Marco handed him a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. "You should know, boss. What're you going to have me do, reassemble M-16s blindfolded again?"

Walter grunted. "Nothing so easy. I think I'll have my associates work you over first, show you a few moves they didn't teach you in Police Academy."

"Oh, like that overhead flip? Good idea. I need a countermove to that."

"Hah." Nikita dismissed him with a wink. "As if you'd want to get away."

"You think I couldn't, if I wanted to?" Marco replied, an eyebrow raised. He served himself spaghetti, took two meatballs and reached for the parmesan cheese. "One of these days, when I haven't just eaten, I'll show you."

"Sure you will." Birkoff poured glasses of wine and passed them around the table. "Right after you figure out how to live forever."

"A toast," Walter raised his glass. "To us and them like us. May we live forever, and be in heaven an hour before the devil hears about it --"

"That's not logical," Marco murmured.

"Shut up, Marco," Nikita whispered.

"And confusion to the enemy." They clinked glasses four ways. Walter's eyes were fierce, remembering all the people he'd lost to the enemies he worked with every day. This time Nikita wouldn't be one of them.

Birkoff shivered, remembering captivity and his release by Nikita and Michael, and thought of the words he'd seen added to Michael's file since the mission ended: under consideration. Michael's future was in his own hands now, for better or worse.

Marco remembered the family he'd lost, the wife and child he missed every day and could not return to. He saw their faces in the bottom of the wine glass as he drank, and closed his eyes. This wasn't home, but there were worse places to be than with friends. He smiled at the others, his eyes sad.

Nikita sipped her wine meditatively, thinking of Mowen without regret. She saw Walter's fierceness, Birkoff's shiver and Marco's smile, and knew she could never find words to tell any of them how much they meant to her -- no words other than these. She raised her glass.

"One more toast." The faces turned toward her as the glasses rose. "No promises and no lies."

Her eyes searched Walter's and Birkoff's for confirmation, and found no argument. The glasses clinked, they drained them to the bottom and threw them into the fireplace to shatter on the stones. Marco followed suit, his face bemused.

"Did I miss something?" he asked.

"You've just been adopted, kid," Walter said. "Look grateful or something, will you?"

"But you're --"

"Three of a kind, yeah," Birkoff said. "That won't change." He shrugged and reached for more glasses. "So you and Nikita make a good team, too. Full house."

"That's not how it works in poker," Marco argued. "Not enough cards."

"Nobody here's been playing with a full deck for years," Walter told him. "You saying you don't want in?"

"No. Yes. I want in," Marco said, his hurry surprising him. "What am I getting into? Never mind, I'll figure it out."

"Good," Nikita said, and leaned over to kiss him. He kissed her back, undeterred by the grin on Birkoff or Walter's wise-ass smile. "It's like the Three Musketeers, Marco. All for one and one for all."

"Wait a minute, I thought there were four of them," Marco said, catching his breath. "Weren't there?"

"Details, details. Will you forget about work and eat your dinner?" Birkoff complained. "It's not like I do this very often."

"No, just at my place," Nikita said. "Any time you want."

"What about Section?" Marco asked.

"Don't worry about it," Nikita told him. She thought back to her last conversation with Ops, when he'd overruled Madeleine and agreed to what she'd suggested as a reward, after giving her a speech about following regulations. She was following regulations; so was he, and he had said, "nearly anything."

Ops had cautioned her about entangling alliances, and she'd dared to remind him of his own alliances -- with Madeleine, with Walter long ago, with others whose names Walter had found on Oversight's papers. "Are you stronger with them or without them?" she asked him, and he'd finally capitulated.

"Why?" Ops had asked her at the end. "You could have anyone." It was Birkoff's question, turned around again, and she wondered for a moment if he was including himself in that thought.

"I don't want just anyone," she told him, her eyes deep. "I never have."

"No, you haven't," he admitted. "All right. On probation."

"Fair enough. But if he flunks our probation it has no effect on Section."

"Agreed."

Marco's next words made her wonder if he was reading her mind. "What is this, a trial marriage or something?"

"Or something," Birkoff told him. "Depends on who you want to marry."

"Or what you want to try." Walter grinned at him, and ducked when Marco lobbed a roll at him. "I know, you don't go my way. Doesn't matter."

"It means we're friends, closer than blood, and that comes before Section," she told him. She hadn't said that to Ops, and she wouldn't, though she knew his feelings for Madeleine were the same as hers for her crew. "Don't promise anything you can't do. Don't lie about any of it."

"Now, that I can agree to," Marco said, "as long as I can get seconds on this spaghetti." He gave her the sidelong devilish grin she'd seen before, and she relaxed. Just for now, they were all safe, and she'd enjoy that as long as she could.

***

"Marco, I'm reassigning you." Operations' voice was curt, more so than usual. "I'm sorry to do this before you finish your training, but we have a job that needs your expertise."

"All right." Marco looked back at Ops, clear-eyed. "What do you need?"

"You're going undercover as a shooter, to take out someone we've been tracking for a long time. When you return from that mission, you'll start training. I assume there will be no problems."

"None."

"Good." Operations looked up as the door opened. "Good luck."

Michael stood there, all in black. "O'Brien. Come with me. We're leaving now."

He got up from the chair without a backward glance and followed Michael down the metallic hallway into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final story in the Gamblers' Choice sequence; originally, three more stories were planned but they did not work out. This was written in 1999, before the third season of La Femme Nikita.


End file.
